


Illyrian Visions

by LivForBooks



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, MAAS Sarah J. - Works
Genre: Angst and Feels, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-07-06 03:04:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivForBooks/pseuds/LivForBooks
Summary: In the aftermath of the war against Hybern, Cassian and Nesta both struggle to come to terms with how they feel about each other and the tragedy they both suffered. Though deep down both recognize the attraction they have to the other, neither seems willing to admit it. The divide between the two grows until, one night, Nesta stumbles into Cassian's room after a particularly devastating nightmare. She feels pulled by some unknown force within to seek comfort with the Illyrian... Oh my, what could it be? Read to find out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> How I imagine/wish Cassian and Nesta's relationship developed after ACOWAR starting the day they returned to Velaris.  
> This story will not be compliant with A Court of Frost and Starlight or the next SJM book that seems like it's going to be about Cassian and Nesta (let's be real).  
> Be warned, this is will be pretty angsty.  
> Also, if you have any advice or constructive criticism, that would be much appreciated. :)
> 
> I don't own these characters or names; they belong to Sarah J Maas and Bloomsbury (what is copyright law? I don't know; please don't sue me.)

The end of the war was the hollowest of victories for Cassian and his friends. Celebration is the description of the evening, but it can’t help but feel counterfeit to the inner circle as they gather in the townhouse. Yes, they won, achieved peace for their world, and once again proved their superiority on the battlefield. But even their relief over successfully banishing the threat of Hybern was overshadowed by the enormous grief of losing so many soldiers and civilians during the conflict. Cassian in particular felt a personal responsibility for the thousands of Illyrian warriors who perished under his command- not to mention the trauma of being moments from death with Nesta over him, using herself as a personal shield.  
Nesta.  
Dammit.  
Nesta was always there in the back of his mind- haunting him- ensnaring him. Even before the incident on the battlefield.  
This particular thought is the reason that, even beyond the shock and emotional strain of war, Cassian is pouring a healthy glass of liquor for himself. He clinks his cup with Azriel and Mor before downing the full glass as a shot. The Illyrian hardly feels the burn as the drink floods his throat.  
Cassian laughs with his friends and cheers when Rhys appears with a bottle of particularly old and expensive wine. He chuckles at something Feyre says even as he feels Nesta behind him watching from the stairs. Even when he senses her anguish and loneliness, he doesn't turn, instead he pours Mor and himself more shots. They cross arms and take twin drinks, howling with laughter as they pretend the night isn't an empty triumph.  
There is one last emotion he feels from outside himself before Nesta leaves the room- betrayal. It hits him bitterly in the stomach; only with great difficulty is he able to suppress the feeling.  
From across the room, Feyre watches the top of the stairs with a moment of sorrow in her face, but he pretends not to catch it just as she pretends not to feel it.  
His heart is breaking. If he wasn't downing alcohol he knows he would be choking on his own sorrow.  
God, he knows he's being a fool. He knows what he wants-her - but, fuck, he's not ready. All of this is too much. He watched so many of his soldiers, many of them friends, die in front of his eyes. He's tired and broken, physically and emotionally. Exhaustion fills him to the brim, so when his friends laugh, he laughs with them. When Rhys hands him a glass of wine, he quickly downs it.  
The Illyrian parties with the inner circle and gladly drinks himself into oblivion.  
Tonight is for a delusion of normalcy, he convinces himself; tomorrow he will begin rebuilding his life, hopefully with Nesta by his side, but tonight Cassian feels he has earned a break from putting himself out there and making life-altering decisions.  
He performs a silent prayer of thanks to whatever being is responsible for creating alcohol. 

Hours later he falls asleep downstairs, Az beside him on the floor, Mor on the couch behind them. The last thing he thinks of as he slips into nothingness, is Nesta's terrified, tormented face over him in her father's final moments. In his mind, he hears her scream, over and over. Eventually he is blessed with an alcohol-induced darkness. 

////

Nesta can't hear anything over a ringing in her ears and a pulsing sound, she vaguely realizes is her own heartbeat. A dark laugh quietly erupts from her. Of course, she thinks, this fucking fae body can't even let me escape the sound of my goddamn useless heart.  
He's down there drinking, having a great time. Like it meant nothing, the war, their almost being killed by Hybern, the death of her father. They all are.  
Nesta walks up the stairs, trying to not look at his back which is turned to her. She just wants to be alone in her room- quiet and away from their laughter and joy.  
Away from her. Mor.  
With her perfect hair. And face. And laugh.  
And hooks in him.  
She can see them now as they take shots together, side-by-side, endlessly joyful. Her hand on his shoulder, his eyes on her.  
Not that she cares- of course she doesn't. He's a bastard, a joke, a ruthless Illyrian. If he wants to fuck the perfect Mor, fine. Whatever.  
It's the story she has told herself a million times since they met, more and more in recent weeks, if she is honest.  
By now, the words feel tired and repetitive. What do they even mean anymore? What does anything mean anymore?  
Deep down she knows her routine affirmations are lies. The thought of him sleeping with Mor, or anyone else, kills her. The thought of him down there ignoring the pain of the war, ignoring her, kills her. The thought of her dad being gone kills her.  
She can still hardly believe how that bit went down. He appears in their lives after over a year and then is gone within minutes, before she could even say goodbye, or sorry...  
The pain is crushing. She needs to get away.  
At the top of the stairs she pauses once more. Looking at the bat against her self-control. His back is still turned; he hasn't even glanced at her once. A feeling of disloyalty singes her heart.  
In the corner of her eye she sees Feyre looking at her. Probably super fucking concerned. But Nesta doesn't care and doesn't spare her a full glance.  
Enough.  
She doesn't even make it to her bed before slumping on the ground. It takes a moment, but eventually she is wracked with sobs. Maybe she cries for hours or maybe she falls asleep right away- the next thing Nesta is conscious of, is being smashed with nightmares of the battlefield and her father dying in front of her eyes. It doesn't matter which specific memory haunts her mind; they are all unbearably painful. 

When sunlight finally streams through the windows, she is relieved. Nesta had barely an hour of rest, and her body aches from laying on the floor all night, but both the exhaustion and pain are better than the horrors that come when she closes her eyes.  
She doesn’t leave her room once the whole day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta finds an outlet for her anger, and Cassian tries to work through his pain after the war.

Dawn stretches for hours.  
From bed, Nesta watches gray light filter into the room, covering the curtains, the floor, her hand, in blanched tones. She has an indistinct realization that it must be a brutally overcast day, the sun’s rays confined by dreary fog, for such ashen hues to be emitting. Seems appropriate, she judges.   
Nesta thinks of her childhood. Of a time when she still had faith in her parents. It took her years to realize her mother and father had no interest in her. Nesta remembers coming in from a day spent playing alone in the yard, Elain too sickly and Feyre too young to join, and bringing her mother a wildflower plucked from a nearby field. Nesta, thinking the petals matched her mother’s dress, held it up in her tiny palm, only to have her mother slap it away and berate her for bringing dirt in the house. She remembers crying herself to sleep that night and countless others, until she learned that, no matter how hard she tried, she would never be entitled to her mother, or anyone else’s, affection. Nesta wonders if this is still the case. Is she still deserving of such acrimony? Until she thinks of her father and is overcome with grief and self-hatred once again. Yet more proof of her disappointment and failure.   
The dusty light has turned darker when Nesta hears something from outside her window: laughter. Twin laughters to be exact, both coming nearer to the house. She wouldn’t have moved but one of the was familiar, so familiar that it brought an automatic feeling of exhilaration to her. For a moment a beautiful vision runs wild through her mind: it’s him. He’s coming to see her. She will get out of this barren room, and they will heal together, not wasting a moment, just as he’d promised.   
With legs unsteady from lack of use, Nesta stumbles to the window, high on the fantasy of their destiny. It only takes one glance outside for the vision to shatter.   
Cassian’s hand is on her back as they walk through the townhouse gate. She says something and they both burst into laughter again. Golden hair flows and ink-black wings expand in the evening breeze.   
Nesta’s shattered hopes only make the pain of seeing them happy together worse. But the ache quickly becomes anger.   
Fuck him. For real, fuck him and his stupid, meaningless promises. He has no intention of being with her. Those sweet words he said on the battlefield were just that - words. All talk. He is clearly in love with Mor, and that’s that. He lied and led Nesta on- she is done, she tells herself.   
Nesta spins from the window, legs unsteady no more, and nearly runs into a desk full of books. Those stupid fucking romance books, she thinks, full of lies and empty promises just like Cassian. Nesta shoves one stack to the ground. And another.   
There is one last stack moments away from suffering the same fate as its companions when Nesta sees the book on top. The sappiest, most trite of all that she had read but also secretly her favorite. Seeing it makes her angrier than the rest combined. The deception of the work is unbearable. Without thinking, she picks up a black marker and turns to a random page in the book.   
Oh perfect, the scene of the fictional couple’s first kiss, stolen during a nighttime tryst. She begins marking the page, covering the most abhorrent of the words with thick, black stripes. Nesta is generous with her ink and doesn’t set the book or marker down until all that remains on the page are a handful of words. “Heart, break, his, quiet, lies, she’s, alone” tell a more fitting story in her opinion.   
She turns to another sheet, marking it until “family, sorrow, broken, sisterhood, silence” were left. Each mark on the page calmed Nesta’s heart, each black ribbon covering amorous phrases steadied her panting breath. When she finished the second page, she turned to another, and another always leaving only words of pain and heartache visible.   
By the time Nesta had ruined much of the book it was dark. She had done it. Survived her first day after the war. Not a single person had come to see her.   
She held her book in bed, though it was too dark to read or continue her destruction of its lines. Its honesty gave her comfort. The rest of the house may pretend that all was well, but Nesta refused to play along in the fantasy.   
Too much heartache, too many broken promises, and too much death.   
Nesta is asleep for only a few moments before she is taken once again with nightmares of the war and her own failures.

////////

The day begins early for Cassian. Silently making his way out of the townhouse, he greets a passerby, the only other one out so long before dawn. His boots strike against the cobblestone in stark contrast to the morning’s eerie stillness. Cassian walks just far enough away from the townhouse that the beating of his wings wouldn’t bother the others still in their beds. The cool wind feels nice on his face flying above Velaris towards the Illyrian camps.   
Two weeks after the end of the war and Cassian has yet to sleep through a sunrise. There is just too much to do he tells himself. A large part of him knows at this point he is only looking for excuses to keep busy and out of the house, away from difficult thoughts and conversations. The rest of his family is taking it easy, even Azriel has been relaxing more, spending much more time at home than before the war. Although this may have more to do with the doe-eyed middle sister than anything.   
Not Cassian. After the first night’s alcoholic escapades, he picked himself up and set to work rebuilding the Illyrian army. Everyday he travels to the camps and works with the remaining troops through the day. They don’t want to train, feel they have earned a break, but Cassian knows this would be a mistake. After a major conflict is the most important time to stay alert lest another court or enemy seeks to hit them when they are weakest. Perhaps he is being too hard on them, but surely it is better to be safe than sorry. Cassian visits widows, orphaned children, and the parents of the fallen whenever he has a chance. Many still see him as a useless bastard, and now to some he was the useless bastard who caused their family member’s death. 

What really ate at him were the nightmares, however. Every night he suffered tremendously. Cassian watched Rhys, Feyre, Mor, and Az die a thousand ways. He watched the entirety of the Illyrian army perish due to a hundred mistakes dream-Cassian made. Nesta died countless horrific deaths right before his eyes. Those were the real reasons he was driven out of bed so early every morning and those were the reasons he stayed out far into the night. He spent the minimum amount of time in bed each night.  
The frequent animosity from the families of the fallen, grievances from the remaining troops, and the nightly horrors have worn on Cassian. He feels like shit and knows he looks like it, though he would never admit it. A year ago he might have turned to a good fuck to feel better, but this is no longer an option. The “sexual escapades” part of his life ended abruptly when a beautifully angry woman stalked into his life months ago.   
Though he tries his hardest to push her out of his mind, Nesta is all he thinks of. She is his greatest wish and his greatest impossibility. Another reason to stay away from the townhouse. 

He sighs as he lands at the closest camp and can already see an angry soldier headed his way. Maybe it is time to step back from the camps, he thinks. Maybe it is time Cassian faces the real problems in his life. But for now, there is work to be done.


	3. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta and Cassian meet face to face for the first time since coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized as I was editing this that the first half reads more like a headcannon than an actual story, so I'm sorry for that.

A week later, and Cassian has begun weaning himself off isolation. Staying for breakfast in the morning, though he still doesn’t sleep through dawn, and coming home earlier. He isn’t surprised to learn that the others have been finding their own forms of coping: Elain and Azriel have spent much of the last three weeks planting a flourishing garden by the House of Wind, and Feyre and Rhysand only seem to leave their bedroom when absolutely necessary. Only, Mor’s daily whereabouts were mysterious. Some days she wouldn’t leave the townhouse, other days she would help the gardeners in the House of Wind, yet other days she would disappear into the city, not seen until the next morning. 

The first family dinner after the war is starting off surprisingly natural. As Rhys and Cassian crack jokes and the girls playfully roll their eyes, it almost feels as though the last few months never happened. At one point, he catches a whispered conversation between Elain and Feyre interspersed with more than a few furtive glances in his direction. Cassian deciphers a sad “didn’t want to see me” from Elain; he can only suspect they are talking of Nesta.  
Perhaps Cassian is overcompensating. Perhaps he jokes more and laughs harder than he would if he wasn’t drowning in nightmares and exhaustion. However, he never stops long enough to contemplate this. Instead he tries his best to make everyone smile.  
Everything seems to be going well until…

The sound of heavy skirts swishing from the stairs reaches the group before she herself emerges.  
“And, “ Azriel tries to continue his story, “and that’s when she-” but, knowing he has lost the room’s attention, as well as his own, he stops mid-sentence. Like a scene from a movie, the inner circle falls into silence, shocked gazes staring at each other, then at the door out of which Nesta confidently strides.  
Cassian’s focus is lost the moment he felt her coming near, and now that she is in the room, before him, for the first time in weeks, he is stunned into silence. He feels like he is seeing her for the first time, and she is an unreachable everything. For the first time, Cassian can’t think of a clever thing to say.  
Were their eyes not locked on each other, he might have had time to recognize how worryingly thin and tired she looked, but all he sees is the stormy, gray gaze that has haunted his thoughts day and night. And the emotion- a barrage of hurt, worry, anger, relief- hits him with force. It’s as if a covering is removed from his heart, and he is able to fully feel once again. 

////////////

 

A fraction of a second passes before she finds Cassian’s eyes. She had already forgotten what it is like- how much feeling there is in his views, in their glances. Emotions she doesn’t want to face, though she can’t seem to look away. A realization that everyone else is silently watching them grazes her consciousness, but Nesta doesn’t yet have the strength or courage to respond with an expected fiery remark.  
It takes her far too long to snap out of his stare, and she silently berates herself for already falling prey to his magnetism.  
The moment of intensity ends when Mor, who Netsa just realizes has been standing very close to Cassian, arm around his shoulder, loudly clears her throat.  
Nesta quickly looks away and grabs a plate from the counter.  
“Nice of you to join us, Nesta,” Feyre supplies, somewhat sharply after no one else manages to speak.  
Hoping her reticence comes across as dismissive rather than a symptom of her encounter with Cassian, Nesta fills a plate and sits alone at the table. No one else budges.  
The interloper begins to shovel some food in her mouth, feeling increasingly unwanted and awkward. As much as she enjoys making everyone uncomfortable, perhaps joining them was a mistake.  
“Are we going to eat or is all this food only for decoration?” Nesta retorts icily when no one else moves to the table. The words seem to snap the room out of their shocked daze, finally. Cassian is the last to unfreeze, eyes still focused on her, but eventually they all are seated, each with their own plate full of what Nuala and Cerridwen have delicately prepared. The Illyrian general makes sure to sit across from the newcomer.  
“So as I was saying,” continues Azriel, earning a thankful look from the group, “neither Amren nor Varian seemed too keen on coming home anytime soon.” The smallest member of the inner circle and her Summer Court lover were holed up in a cabin in the prince’s homeland. “ I would have asked further, but they were making sex eyes at each other and, honestly, I don’t have enough courage to get in the way of that, even if Amren is now supposedly less menacing.”  
The inner circle gives an assenting laugh.  
“Yes, it seems Amren’s force of character is somehow even more threatening now than it was previously,” Rhys adds. The group continues to share Amren stories, mostly trying to diffuse the strain of the surprise addition. Nesta and Cassian are in their own world, not hearing any of it.  
The general presses her with a smirky grin to which she returns only a cold stare.  
Well aren’t you a sight for weary eyes, sweetheart.  
Well aren’t you as irritating as ever, hulking buffoon.  
It’s been a while. One might begin to think you’re avoiding me.  
She still doesn’t understand how they do this- communicate only through looks. The logical side of her is unnerved by these interactions - how does he get in her head so easily? How is she able to perceive all the dumb, arrogant things he means? But another, deeper side of her, one she infrequently lets control her thoughts, is calmed by the understanding of another. Even if he uses that understanding to annoy her constantly.  
Is that what you are doing, Nessie? Avoiding me or your feelings for me?  
As if I think enough about you to avoid you.  
They are the only two not eating by now, food left untouched in favor of more interesting engagement.  
Ouch. You’re killing me baby. An exaggerated clutch of his heart and a challenging cocking of an eyebrow. What is it you’re doing up in your room all day? Maybe you could use a hand? Or more?  
The ensuing suggestive wink has Nesta rolling her eyes just as an image from before the war flashes in her head, seemingly of its own volition. Of Cassian training outside. Toned and tanned muscles impressively maneuvering through countless training exercises in direct view of her bedroom window. Bare chest with a sheen of hard work on a hot day… Nesta’s mind gets preoccupied with the memory, and Cassian seems to know just what she is thinking. She had seen him training that day, had perhaps gotten a little more distracted with the view than she would freely admit, but there had been no indication that Cassian sensed her watching. Nesta barely has a moment to feel embarrassed by being retroactively caught for spying before the general’s irritatingly confident and bating voice fills her head once more.  
No need to be embarrassed, darling. I know I can be distracting.  
Nesta’s mind is filled with another memory from before the war- before she was fae even- of Cassian occupying the whole of her bedroom with his massive body and wings, occupying the whole of her attention as he grazes her neck with his lips. Starting at the crook and trailing up until his breath on the shell of her ear sends shivers down her spine. Then the vision begins to move from recollection to imagination as his hands grasp her waist and his teeth nip at her neck. The fantasy is headed in some interesting directions and would have continued if Rhys hadn’t cleared his throat, pulling Nesta and Cassian back into reality.  
The table is silent and staring at the two of them. Nesta realizes she had expressed a sigh she released in the vision, out loud, and if she is not mistaken, the stare Cassian has trained on her is reminiscent of the “sex eyes” from Azriel’s story.  
Nesta’s face is just beginning to turn red when she realizes she doesn’t care what anyone, especially her kid sister and her arrogant friends, thinks.  
I just have that effect on people.  
People, Nesta can’t help but think of the blonde across the table. Who happens to be glaring at her at the moment. Cassian follows Nesta’s brief gaze to the woman beside him but doesn’t comment.  
“Care to rejoin the table, Cassian?” Rhys nearly chides.  
“You seem so out of it today, Cas.” It’s Mor this time; her hand is back on his shoulder. “I know there is still so much work, but you need to get out again. All you do is train Illyrians all day.”  
“Not true!” he interjects with faux offense, “I also visit widows and orphans.” He winks at Nesta who only glares at him.  
Mor good-naturedly rolls her eyes, “Yes but every night you come home and hide in your room. Come dancing with me. Rita’s is calling.”  
Feyre pipes up at the mention of the inner circle’s favorite club. “Yes! We haven’t been in so long! Nesta, you should come too!” she adds hopefully.  
Azriel and Elain join with quieter, though still enthusiastic agreements.  
“Please Cas, I really need a break,” Mor begs again, hand gliding up his shoulder, twirling the back of his hair.  
“From what? You’ve been disappearing anytime there’s work to be done,” Feyre laughs.  
“Honey, I need a break from sobriety.”  
“You have a glass of wine in your hand right now” Rhys points out with amusement.  
“Mmmh, this?” She lifts the glass for emphasis and knocks the rest of it back. “This doesn’t count, of course.” this earns laughter from everyone at the table.  
Except Nesta.  
She looks at the two of them together and she sees centuries of history, a closer bond than she could ever have with Cassian, and a story in which there is no room for her. Maybe she and Cassian have a connection of their own, but it can’t possibly live up to his with Mor.  
Nesta knows it isn’t Mor’s fault- knows she shouldn’t dislike Mor for being there first, being more interesting, more beautiful, more lovable, but she can’t help it. As Nesta looks across the table at the two of them she feels hurt. But this is quickly replaced with anger at Cassian. He shouldn’t have lead her on when he never had any intention of committing to her; he shouldn’t have said those things on the battlefield when he clearly did not mean them, and he shouldn’t fucking use their connection to irritate her after ignoring her. For weeks she has been telling herself she doesn’t care but now knows this is a lie. Half the books in her room are blackened into poetry, but she still isn’t free of him.  
Nesta realizes all this time she was really waiting for Cassian to come see her, but he never showed. She had hoped to find a reason for his absence at dinner, perhaps he was away, or in bed sick, or dead for fuck’s sake. But no, he has just been ignoring her. Something within her hardens at the understanding.  
Nesta can feel Cassian watching her closely, feel him trying to access her mind, but she closes it off the way Amren taught her.  
The general clears his throat, “well, if the whole gang’s going, how could I say no?” Nesta pretends to not register his emphasis on “whole.” If he thinks she has any interest in going anywhere with the group, with him, he can go fuck himself.  
She regrets coming down, even if the few moments talking to Cassian were the first human conversation she has had in weeks...  
Then Nesta remembers the existence of alcohol and promptly pours herself a glass of wine.  
She makes the mistake of meeting his eye over the rim of her glass as she takes her first sip and immediately regrets it. Because in that moment, the world shifts.  
Nesta nearly chokes on her wine as everything focuses on the Illyrian before her. The link, which felt strong before, was tenuous in comparison to what connects them now. It is as if a string has been tied between her mind and his, her heart, her body and his. She knows he feels it too, would know even if his eyes weren’t as big as dinner plates with shock.  
You have got to be fucking kidding me, she thinks. What new fae bullshit is this?  
“Nesta,” Elain timidly asks, “is everything ok?”  
It’s that asinine bond. Hell no, we are not Feyre and Rhysand, she fumes.  
Without looking away from the general, Nesta loudly and abruptly stands up out of her chair.  
“Thank you for the food,” she adds just before storming out of the room.  
There is only silence in the wake of her exit. Then Cassian lets out a loud, unsteady breath.


End file.
